The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (14 page)

A week later, he still felt a stranger in this provisional court. Apart from his time with Hector, people around him were excessively polite and servile. He did not really have anyone he could talk to. He was alone. Gradually, the training repertoire changed to include more of the softer skills. During daylight, they polished his eating habits and manners, the kind of things an emperor might need to have. He rather resented those slow, boring sessions. Weapons were easy. Speaking like an idiot wasn’t.

James understood they were preparing him for the full onslaught of diplomacy once his heritage was exposed to the world. With each passing day, he was given more time in all sorts of meetings, with smart-looking men in expensive clothes discussing commerce and war. Regardless, he felt like an outsider, a man watching an elaborate show, enjoying the scenes but taking no personal interest in the things around him.

“Watch, listen, and learn.” Neal charged him.

Master Angus gave him a book on the history of Caytor, by someone called Blackwood. It was an old manuscript, with hints of older dialects, with references in two types of Continental called the Vulgar and the Elite. James saw little difference, except that posh people might prefer some of the longer words. But first and foremost, the book was as exciting as a block of wood.

Two weeks passed. The weather cleared. He spent more time outside, studying the mansion ground layout, examining its defenses, practicing with a short sword, then with a scimitar. No one really bothered him, and he was glad for the respite.

Before bedtime, alone in a huge chamber that could house a dozen people, he often sat on the fat, expensive rugs, thinking about Celeste, about his mother, about the surreal change in his life.

His personal aide, squire, and manservant all combined, a boy called Timothy, was doing pretty much the same thing on the other side of his chamber walls, sitting on the floor and fretting, wondering why his master would always dismiss him so early. Was he not worthy of his duty, the boy would ask, sometimes aloud. Timothy would always wait until James fell asleep before going to his small cot in the servants’ quarters.

Lord Melville was disappointed with him, James knew, but he did not interfere as long as James seemed pleased. James had never wanted anyone to serve upon him as if he were some mighty noble.

He was no man of the court. He did not fully understand what they wanted from him. He understood crime and justice; he could tell right from wrong. He was good at reading animal tracks and footprints in the forest soil. He could hold his ground in close combat. Courts had none of that.

Week three was no different.

Otis was rambling about the ramifications of trade suspension between Caytor and Athesia. Another man, whose name James could not remember, discussed the status of the hostages in Roalas. After a lengthy debate, no one was quite sure what the council should do. Someone called Stephan was mentioned. Whenever James started to fidget, Master Neal would lean forward, intruding his field of vision, smiling. Watch, listen, and learn.

“Has anyone considered this woman might be afraid, simple plain afraid?” James blurted, annoyed. This woman was supposed to be his half sister, from a father he had never known and a woman who had replaced his mother. A complete stranger.

Silence. They looked at him as if he’d grown a pair of testicles on his forehead. Master Angus wore a sour yet smug look on his face. It looked as if he had just won a bet.

Councillor Reuben, an older man with a thick, well-groomed beard, was the first to recover. “What do you mean, Your Highness?”

James cracked his knuckles. He found the honorific jarring to his conscience. But it was part of the grand scheme, it seemed. To be an emperor, you had to behave like one and feel like one. So far, he only felt bewilderment.

“She is probably afraid you won’t acknowledge her rule, so she’s trying to act tough. I’ve seen that kind of behavior before. Really dangerous. When you have desperate criminals take hostages, they sometimes execute one or two just to prove a point—except there’s no point. You could send some kind of reassurance so she knows you mean no harm.”
My half sister
… his mind rumbled. It was crazy.

Councillor Melville smiled. “Your Highness, if we do that, this means we formally acknowledge her rule. We cannot do that. It’s not so simple. This would undermine the legitimacy of your claim.”

James leaned back in the big, plush leather chair. All his half sister had to do was be very generous and friendly to her neighbors. That would undo any plan Otis and Melville had in store. In fact, he wondered why they had not approached her with the same idea. Or maybe they had. So what did that tell him?

He had a half sister, he thought. What kind of person was she? Did she look anything like him?

He wanted to speak again, but stopped himself. He was not that well versed in the history of Athesia to make any grand statements. The history books were a torture. The last two weeks of boring, monotone lecturing swam inside his head like a drunken otter. Apparently, her father—his father—had never really tried to thaw relations with either Eracia or Caytor. Maybe this was why they insisted on having him throned? Maybe he was easier to control?

Except no one had demanded anything from him yet. The promise of an unbreakable alliance and extremely favorable trade agreements was a distant notion. No one expected him to do anything about it right now, but come the right moment, he should definitely remember his benefactors.

He was too confused to be angry, but deep down, he felt like he was selling out. The price of peace. James had never really considered the nature of their proposal. Was it fair? Was it just? Would he be betraying the people of Athesia? Would he be betraying Eracia, the one country he thought he could call home?

He snorted. One day, he would be an emperor, leading a nation, holding a sword to the necks of tens of thousands, controlling their lives, deciding their fates. It sounded like a fable, a promise of peace that two weasels had sold him and his mother. He was not really sure it was the truth, really. Nothing sounded like the truth.

Otis was staring at him, obviously displeased for some unknown reason. James ignored the man. He could only begin to guess the power games that ran in the undercurrents of the Caytorean High Council. If he were any judge of character, these men hardly trusted one another.

He closed his eyes and let his mind float. James promised himself he would not be sucked into the void of lies and tricks. He would let them teach him everything he needed to know to face the subtle world of diplomacy. He would let them steer him, guide him, mold him, but he would keep true to his principles and let justice prevail. But it was still too early to fantasize about what he might do one day. For now, he was a lone man in a den of snakes. It felt oddly pleasing to realize being an emperor did not feel that much different from hunting criminals in the dark reaches of the countryside. Far from civilization and mercy, your instincts were still the sharpest weapon.

The day after, sword practice over, a delegation of Caytor’s finest came, freshly arrived from Eybalen, councillors, low and high, investors, guild masters, shipyard owners, merchants, bankers. Armed with dazzling smiles, they shook his hand and greeted him with practiced and utterly dishonest little speeches of future glory and cooperation. Their names zipped past in a torrent of words. Otis was leading the gang, orchestrating the meeting. Then, they led him to a stately room full of stuffed animal heads mounted on racks high on the wall. In the room, three painters were present, with easels propped and ready. A dozen scribes crowded the room, pens held like lances.

The councillors bid James sit at the head of the long black table, Otis and Melville at his sides. A heavy framed skin was placed in front of him. Sign here, they said. And that was it. He was now officially the emperor of Athesia. The declaration would be copied and sent to every ruler in the realms.

The grim-looking Sirtai witchman also spoke, his accent disjointed. He presented the audience of several dozen with magical proofs of James’s legacy, sealed in blood and whatnot. While the magic wielder spoke, the perfect composure on some of the faces cracked a little. The Sirtai left an uneasy feeling in the room, especially when he upended bits of curdled blood onto the edge of the polished table. They looked like ashes.

James did not feel any different being an emperor. But he realized this was only the beginning. The true challenge was still ahead of him, and he could not even begin to comprehend what would happen.

Once again, he was alone. He stood on one of the many balconies overlooking the estate’s garden, staring at nothing, thinking. There were two soldiers present, guarding him. Another man was patrolling the gardens, the crunch of his boots an unnerving, slow staccato against the gravel paths. His would-be aide and unlikely squire Timothy was off on some errand on Melville’s behalf. Well, it was for the better. James did not feel like chumming with the boy.

“Congratulations, Your Majesty.” A woman’s voice.

James turned. He tried to remember the name. Lady Rheanna. She was a banker or an investor of some sort, come all the way from the capital to express her support for his claim.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said simply.

“Call me Rheanna,” she purred.

James sighed. He was out of his depth, but he knew a predator when he saw one. And it seemed the games of intrigue would begin a little sooner than he had expected.

“My lady, it would be inappropriate. I hardly know you.” He tried his best manners, freshly forged.

“In Caytor, things are a little different,” she crooned. James noted how quickly she had dropped the honorific, not that he minded. He felt silly being called the emperor. He did not feel like one.

“Thank you,” he said at last.

She approached closer. He felt alarmed. The only women he had spoken to this close were his mother, Aunt Alexa, and Celeste. Her scent wrapped around him. It was too sweet for his taste, fake, forced. He swallowed the unease at the back of his throat.

Rheanna was older than him, he noted, but he could not tell by how much. Her face was wreathed in tiny wrinkles, hidden under a layer of paint. There was a stately haughtiness about her, which added to her presence. Only if you squinted close enough and tried to peel off the mask of pretense could you see her real face, the bone structure, the tiny skin blemishes, the creases of age. It was nothing like the wind-blasted skin of the common people in Windpoint, who spent their lives under the harsh glare of the sun, but it was there. She was much older than him.

Despite himself, he felt a little aroused. Nothing much, just a gentle buzz of energy in his loins. It reminded him he had not sinned in almost a month.

“I hope we will have an opportunity to know one another,” she offered.

“I hope so, too, my lady,” he heard himself lie.

She drifted away, the perfect bait.